100 Themes
by just a bit crazy
Summary: A collection of one shots that will probably cover a little bit of everything.
1. Smile

**Author's Note: This is a challenge I did in another fandom that I thought would be fun to do with Fringe. You are given a list of 100 words/phrases and the goal is to write a one-shot based on each of the themes. You don't have to do them in order, or cennect them, but you can if you want to. If any one else wants to play, here are the themes.**

**1. Introduction ****2. Love ****3. Light ****4. Dark ****5. Seeking Solace ****6. Break Away ****7. Heaven ****8. Innocence ****9. Drive ****10. Breathe Again ****11. Memory ****12. Insanity ****13. Misfortune ****14. Smile ****15. Silence ****16. Questioning ****17. Blood ****18. Rainbow ****19. Gray ****20. Fortitude****21. Vacation ****22. Mother Nature ****23. Cat ****24. No Time ****25. Trouble Lurking ****26. Tears ****27. Foreign ****28. Sorrow ****29. Happiness ****30. Under the Rain ****31. Flowers ****32. Night ****33. Expectations ****34. Stars ****35. Hold My Hand ****36. Precious Treasure ****37. Eyes ****38. Abandoned ****39. Dreams ****40. Rated ****41. Teamwork ****42. Standing Still ****43. Dying ****44. Two Roads ****45. Illusion ****46. Family ****47. Creation ****48. Childhood ****49. Stripes ****50. Breaking the Rules ****51. Sport ****52. Deep in Thought ****53. Keeping a Secret ****54. Tower ****55. Waiting ****56. Danger Ahead ****57. Sacrifice ****58. Kick in the Head ****59. No Way Out ****60. Rejection ****61. Fairy Tale ****62. Magic ****63. Do Not Disturb ****64. Multitasking ****65. Horror ****66. Traps ****67. Playing the Melody ****68. Hero ****69. Annoyance ****70. 67% ****71. Obsession ****72. Mischief Managed ****73. I Can't ****74. Are You Challenging Me? ****75. Mirror ****76. Broken Pieces ****77. Test ****78. Drink ****79. Starvation ****80. Words ****81. Pen and Paper ****82. Can You Hear Me? ****83. Heal ****84. Out Cold ****85. Spiral ****86. Seeing Red ****87. Food ****88. Pain ****89. Through the Fire ****90. Triangle ****91. Drowning ****92. All That I Have ****93. Give Up ****94. Last Hope ****95. Advertisement ****96. In the Storm ****97. Safety First ****98. Puzzle ****99. Solitude ****100. Relaxation**

**So that's what you can expect. 100 random one-shots that will cover the whole range of situations, characters, ships, ratings, etc. There will probably be a little bit of everything. Without Further ado: my first theme. **

**

* * *

**

Despite what some people might think, it is actually possible to be a genius and an idiot, simultaneously. Peter Bishop knew he was living proof of this.

It was bad enough that he had spent two month dating the wrong Olivia Dunham, without realizing it, but then he apparently made things worse with the way he told her. At the time, he had simply been trying to show her he had noticed the differences when he told her the other her was quicker with a smile. It was only later that he realized she may have taken that the wrong way, thinking that he liked the other her better.

He didn't. But the sad truth was, he had never really known his Olivia when she was happy. He had come into her life just in time to witness the mess with John. That had been a difficult blow for her. And just when it seemed like she was getting past John's death and the situation surrounding it, Charlie had been killed. If anyone deserved to be happy, it was Liv, but in the time he had known her, there had been far too few occasions for her to smile. So when they got back from the other side, and she seemed so much happier… he just didn't have enough to compare to, to know it was wrong.

Peter was determined, though, to never make that mistake again. Now that he had the real Olivia back, and they were together, he was determined to notice and appreciate everything about her. He learned that though she may not smile as often in an obvious way, she had a way of smiling with her eyes. Sometimes it was too subtle for most people to recognize as a smile, but for anyone paying attention, it was beautiful.

So now, when he overheard people talking about how Dunham never seemed to smile, he would just shake his head. He knew better. He was, after all, a genius.


	2. Breaking the Rules

Author's Note 

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! It means to much to me to know that I'm not just sending this out into the massive void that is the internet, but that people are actually reading this, and even liking it :) I had a bit of technical difficulty last time, and the title disappeared, so if you wanted to know, the last one was Smile.

Thanks a million to Waterlily33 for being my beta on this. Without you, this one wouldn't exist.

Disclaimer: eeney meeney, miney moe, in case you're lost, it's not my show.

Now, onto Breaking the Rules

* * *

Breaking the Rules

It was moments like this that made agent Phillip Broyles wonder what, exactly, he was thinking when he paired special agent Olivia Dunham and Peter Bishop.

He was reclining against the edge of his desk, glaring down at the two investigators in question, who were sitting in front of him.

"Would either of you care to explain why I have two members of congress, three lawyers and the director of the FBI calling my office?"

"Your winning personality?"

There was a reason Peter usually wasn't involved in these meetings. Opting to ignore the quip, Broyles turned his glare to Dunham.

"It's a long story, sir. And I'm not quite sure where to begin."

There was steel in his voice when he replied. "Try the beginning."

Instead of Dunham, though, it was Peter who answered. "Well, Walter's been in a bit of a funk lately, so apparently, this morning, he decided to take some of his... special medication."

When Broyles didn't say anything, he continued, seemingly at ease. "A little while later, completely out of the blue, Walter suddenly found himself with a bad case of the munchies."

Broyles was choosing, for the time being, to ignore the implications, when Dunham, sitting up straight in her chair, finally chimed in. "The lab is always well stocked for just that situation, but Walter insisted that what he really needed were snicker doodle bars, and that only one store knew how to make them correctly."

"Unfortunately, he couldn't remember where that store was, or what it was called." Peter interjected, picking up the story again. "So he asked Astrid to drive him around, convinced that if he just retraced his steps from the last time he bought them, he would remember where to get them.

"When they got to the parking lot, though, the car wouldn't start; which really isn't surprising considering the thing is almost as old as I am. Walter was too obsessed with the snicker doodles by this point, to be able to wait around for the bus, so they called a cab."

Broyles was losing patience. It had been a long day, he could feel a headache developing, and he still hadn't heard anything that, in any way, seemed to explain _The Incident_.

"And what in God's name does any of this have to do with what happened?" he demanded.

"Just hang on, we're getting there." Peter said.

Perhaps sensing that her partner was getting on her boss' very last nerve, Dunham picked up the story again.

"Peter and I were in the field when Astrid was dealing with the Walter situation. We went to see a friend of the vic's, and although he wasn't home, his kid brother was."

The words _kid brother _set off alarm bells in Broyles head. Things always got dicey when a minor was involved. "And how old was this kid brother?"

"Sixteen. He told us," she continued, before he had a chance to respond to that, "that another friend of his brother's is a chem major, and has known ties to an extremist group. So we decided to go look up this friend."

"The teenager just _volunteered_ all this information?" He had never met a teenager who could be described as forthcoming.

Despite asking Dunham, Peter was the one to answer. "He might have been under the impression we were friends of his brother."

Broyles crossed his arms over his chest, tension dripping off him like goo from one of Walter's experiments. "Any chance the parents were around?"

Dunham shook her head. "They were at work. So, we went to the suspect's apartment, and while we were looking around, we noticed a paystub from..."

"Wait." he interrupted, "how did you get into the apartment?" He was enough of a cop that he _had_ to ask, even though he wasn't sure he really wanted the answer.

Once again, Peter interjected. "Wouldn't you know it, the door just happened to be open."

Broyles headache had made a definite appearance, and was vying for his attention. Peter Bishop considered laws to simply be formalized rules, and rules to be more like suggestions, that were generally a good idea to follow... unless you had a good reason not to.

Completely ignoring this exchange, Dunham continued the story. "The pay stub indicated that the suspect works at a confectionary down near the business district, so we went to pay him a visit."

Broyles shifted his glare as Peter, seemingly unable to stay out of the story for long, took over again.

"Meanwhile, Walter and Astrid had been riding all over town, since, apparently, Walter was medicated the last time he went looking for the snicker doodle bars too. By sheer coincidence, one of the stops on this whirlwind tour of candy land was the same confectionary that the suspect works in."

It was Dunham's turn to interrupt. "The store has two main areas: a manufacturing area, where they make the goods they sell in their store and elsewhere, and a large market area where they sell the goods they make, as well as a variety of other sweets, baking supplies and candy making supplies. The goods are all kept on rows of high shelves, which would make the building tactically difficult even at the best of times. This wasn't."

Even without knowing the rest of the story, Broyles was pretty sure that could qualify for understatement of the century. He had no idea where the story was going, but it wasn't anywhere good.

It was Peter who continued. "By the time we got there, Walter had sent Astrid looking for the snicker doodles while he wandered around the baking section, looking for supplies, having suddenly had the inspired idea to learn how to make the things himself."

The way Peter was becoming more animated as he continued, told Broyles they were getting closer to the good part, or maybe the bad part.

"By this time, the cabbie had been waiting in the taxi for fifteen minutes, and still needing payment on a $93 dollar fare, came into the store looking for them, along with his eight year old daughter who was there as a part of take-your-daughter-to-work-day."

Knowing Broyles would want all pertinent information, Dunham resumed control. "There were two other civilian customers in the store as well. So basically, a grandmother was looking for help with a recipe, a CEO was looking for directions, Walter was looking for baking supplies, Astrid was looking for snicker doodles, the cabbie and his daughter were looking for Walter and Astrid, and Peter and I were looking for the suspect. With everything going on, the suspect must have realized something was up, because the next thing we knew, the air was filling with what looked like thick white smoke. It only took us a second to realize the suspect must have released powdered sugar into the ventilation system."

Sugar in a ventilation system? It used to amuse Broyles, the way such smart people could do such stupid things. Now it just pissed him off, because he was the one who had to deal with the aftermath.

Taking the story back from his partner, Peter went on. "Unfortunately, things went downhill from there. While 'Livia went after the suspect, the cabbie started having war flashbacks, and his daughter ran off laughing, thinking it was all some sort of game. Walter was under the impression that they were under alien attack, and began grabbing everything he could, to stockpile, then climbed to the top of one of the shelves. Because apparently, that's what you do when space aliens are invading. You climb a shelf.

"Now, it seems that somewhere along the way, Walter had grabbed some butter, and with not a lot of room on the top shelf, it got knocked off, spilling a bit on the floor. When the little girl ran by, she started slipping and sliding around, before falling down. She was fine, but the powdered sugar had left the CEO half blinded and in the midst of a coughing fit, so he didn't see her on the floor, and ended up tripping over her, heading head first into a display of dipping chocolate. He too, was fine. But his $5,000 suite? Not as fine, as milk chocolate drenched it, and the floor.

By this point, Broyles was attempting for focus on his breathing, and not the details of the story unfolding in front of him. Oblivious, Peter continued.

"In a nearby area of the store, the grandmother mistook Astrid for an employee and was complaining loudly to her, as Astrid attempted to help her find a way out of the store. Noticing the chocolate spill and wanting to avoid it, she ended up finding a side exit."

Dunham interjected again, having been listening as Peter talked. "There was no way she could have known that the store had been doing some painting the day before, and hadn't bothered to put their materials away."

Well, at the very least, they weren't the only ones liable.

And Peter was back, trying to put a positive spin on things. "They may have gotten splattered, but at least they managed to avoid the worst of it. And it ended up coming in handy."

When Broyles raised an incredulous eyebrow, Dunham explained. "Peter had gone out the front to try to cut off a few possible escape paths, while I chased the suspect through the back manufacturing area and out a back door. I was running after him, around the side of the building, when the paint fell of front of him, and he inadvertently ran through it. It made following him easier, and by the time he reached the front, Peter was there to tackle him."

When she stopped talking, there was a beat of silence. He was doing his best to remain calm, and process the situation. "Are you telling me that using information you received from an unaccompanied minor after you misrepresented yourself, you broke into a suspect's apartment, then pursued him to his place of employment, creating a situation where your partner's stoned father endangered the wellbeing of civilians?"

Not surprisingly, it was Peter who answered. "I don't recall saying anything of the sort."

"Really, it's not as bad as it sounds, sir. No one was seriously injured, the suit can be replaced, and we caught the guy. I even got a full confession."

Broyles knew it was going to take a while to sort this one out. As Peter got up, he had a bit of last advice for their superior. "Give it a few days to blow over. Everyone got a great story out of it, and it won't be long until they're laughing over everything."

Laugh it off? Not likely, not with the kind of VIPs who had been called in. This was a mess of epic proportions.

As the younger man left, Broyles went around his desk and sat tiredly in his chair. Dunham stood to leave, then paused. "Sir, did you happen to notice that today is April 1st?"

"Are you telling me this is some kind of APRIL FOOL'S DAY prank?" He didn't know whether to be furious or thrilled at the possibility.

"No, sir. But maybe the VIPs don't need to know that. Have a good evening."

It was a surprisingly good suggestion for someone with as little patience for politics as Dunham.

"Goodnight. And Dunham?" When she paused in the doorway, he continued. "No more breaking the rules."

* * *

Author's Note #2: This one was written to be in belated honor of April Fool's day. It got a little sillier than I will usually go, but like I said, I like to do a little bit of everything.


	3. Drink

Authors Note: I've been working on a longer one, and it's been taking a while. In the meantime, I got the urge to do more character exploration. Fair warning: this one is is pretty dark. Be prepared.

Disclaimer:

Roses are red,

chilies ar hot;

this laptop is mine,

Fringe is not.

* * *

Drink

There are many things we learn from our parents, whether we want to or not. For the most part, Olivia's step-father had been a living lesson for her of what not to do. There is one thing, however, that she learned from him. He taught her to drink.

Not directly, of course. He never mixed her drinks, or poured her shots; he didn't have to. Like a stream, gentle and constant, the lessons carved themselves into her subconscious, ready to shape her actions years later.

The first time Olivia got drunk, it was her 15th birthday.

She hadn't wanted to celebrate her 14th birthday. Or her 13th, for that matter. It had only taken her three years to learn to expect the cards. Three years to learn to associate what should be a happy day, with a reminder of one of the worst days of her life. By the time she was thirteen, she no longer wanted to celebrate her birthday. Maybe if she could forget the day, she could forget the cards too, and it could all just go away.

But it was important to her mother to celebrate. Even at that young age, Olivia could see that her mother needed to know that she was ok. That her own actions (or lack thereof) hadn't permanently damaged her daughter. So Olivia put on a good face, and they celebrated.

Olivia was 14 when her mother died. She and Rachel had gone to live with their aunt and uncle. They knew about what had happened, and about the cards. They wanted to throw her a party, distract her from everything she had been through, but Olivia had put her foot down. She no longer had the strength to put on an act, and pretend everything was ok.

That was the day, the day that invisible channel first led her to her relatives' liquor cabinet. As she burned the card in a trash can, she downed her very first glass of whiskey. The silky fire slid past her lips, burning her pain as well as her throat.

She didn't drink all that much, but with her petit frame and inexperience with alcohol, it didn't take much. She awoke the next morning with a pounding headache, but even that was welcomed. A blissful distraction from the fact that the cards were still there, and her mother still wasn't.

It's so much easier to take aspirin for an aching head, than an aching heart.

Olivia Dunham was a good kid, and she didn't drink often, but every time she did, it reinforced the lessons from so long ago. When things get too hard, or too painful, just have a drink.

Here's to you, kid.


	4. Love

Sorry it's been so long. Life got in the way. I'm still working on that longer one. It's a little tricky and I want to make sure I get it right. In the meantime, another pretty short one, this one much less angsty. Hope you enjoy, the prompt is Love.

Disclaimer: I'm petitioning Santa, but in the meantime, I don't own Fringe.

* * *

Love.

It is the invisible force that shapes people's lives.

A subtle, but unbreakable, thread, it weaves through the fabric of humanity, forming patterns for posterity alone to read.

It was love that caused a man to throw away all his inhibitions. To forsake the sensible caution that had held him back from violating some of the most fundamental laws of physics. To take a risk on behalf of countless others, who would never get a vote. He did this without hesitation, or a second thought, all for the sake of a boy he had no right to love; but did.

It was love that drove a woman to cross the planet in search of a stranger. To rush into a dusty warzone, prepared to do whatever it took to get him to return with her, to save the one she loved.

Two years later, it was love that drove that same woman to cross universes in search of the same man, who was no longer a stranger. To enter a very different kind of warzone without hesitation or second thought, to find the man she hadn't known she needed.

Only love could have brought that lost man home. Made him take her hand, and return to the shattered insanity that was his life. Love gave him the hope that the broken pieces could be put back together, even if he didn't know how.

Love kept a broken man from letting go of his stolen son. From mourning the unspeakable loss, and healing the empty void that remained.

It was love that nearly destroyed two worlds; and in the end, it was love that saved them all.


	5. Dreams

Author's Note:

This one has been a long time coming. I've been working on it on and off for about two months. It is BY FAR the longest one yet.

On another note, the finale turned my brain to mush, so unless otherwise noted, they should all be considered pre- 6:02 AM.

Finally, a huge thanks to my Super-Beta Waterlily3, for her endless patience

Disclaimer: If I owned fringe, I would understand the finale.

* * *

Dreams

It was a bright, clear autumn day that found a dark, suited man hurrying across the Harvard quad. Brightly colored, fallen leaves crunched under his feet as he made his way intently toward the Kresgie building. He was so distracted, he failed to sense the foreign gaze of the much paler, bald man as he passed nearby. Instead, his thoughts were consumed with the call he had received, as he climbed the now familiar steps.

The beautiful day outside was in sharp contrast to Phillip Broyles' mood as he strode purposely through the building. It would be really nice to go just one week without some catastrophe happening to, or around, his people; although with Fringe Division, maybe that was an unrealistic hope.

When he finally entered the spacious basement lab of Dr. Walter Bishop, the scene that greeted him was something that for most people would seem to be straight out of some kind of strange movie. For Fringe, however, it was just another day at the office- or lab, as the case may be.

In the center of the eclectic work space were four examination chairs, the type you would see in a dentist's office. They were arranged in a group with the heads together, and were occupied by Peter Bishop, agents Dunham and Farnsworth, and their latest victim. Each had a protrusion of wires flowing from various points on their head, and they were all unconscious. Pacing around their perimeter, a visibly anxious Walter Bishop fretted, muttering to himself.

"Dr. Bishop, what is going on?"

At the sight of the other man, Walter stopped his pacing. "I don't know! They should have been done by now, but they haven't even started! I just don't... it should be working... it doesn't..." He seemed to get lost in his mind for a moment, before suddenly returning. "Don't worry. Bradley should be here any minute. We will get to the bottom of this."

"Bradley? Who's-" but before he could finish the question, as if on cue, the door to the lab once again opened, and Dr. Brandon Fayette, the head of Massive Dynamic's R&D department, entered.

"Dr. Bishop? Ms. Sharp seemed to think you wanted to see me. So what's up?"

"Bradley, you're here! Excellent, now we can get started. What you need to do-"

"Dr. Bishop," Broyles interrupted, a hard edge to his deep voice, "you still haven't told me what exactly is going on. No one is doing anything until I get some answers. What is going on? Are my people ok?"

"Well, like I said before, I don't know exactly what's gone wrong." The enthusiasm that had started to creep into Walter's voice deflated back into uncertainty. "I assure you that all of them are fine. To answer your question, technically, nothing has happened. That's the problem. As you can see, they are all hooked up to one another. They went into the drug assisted sleep like they were supposed to, but they've just stayed there. They were supposed to enter one another's minds to work together to defeat the entity that's been projecting itself into people's minds, but they haven't. They're all just... sleeping!"

"So what exactly do you propose doing about this? Can they be woken up?"

"Yes, well except for Ms. Jones who was in an unwakeable sleep before we found her, but waking them up won't do any good. The only way to address this entity is inside the mind. So, you and I are going to join the dream-walkers here, and figure out what's gone wrong."

Broyles was not thrilled with the proposition. "Are you sure it's a good idea to have so many minds connected?"

"Of course. Having extra people involved acts as a grounding force and helps keep the whatever-it-is from overwhelming anyone. Assuming we get that far. Since we will both be unconscious, Bradley here will be over-seeing the project."

Brandon was so fascinated with the project that he didn't even bother correcting Walter. "I am so glad I came into work today."

The conviction in his voice was unmistakable. Watching Brandon's absorption as Walter explained the process, Broyles wondered if maybe the amount of time the two scientists spent together should be limited.

Twenty minutes later, against Broyles' better judgment, he and Walter were slowly falling into the drug soaked arms of oblivion.

* * *

Astrid Farnsworth was lying in a small, sunny meadow filled with wild flowers. It was near a vacation spot her family had visited when she was a child. Growing up in a large family, time alone was often hard to come by, but this was a place where she could always find a few minutes to herself, a little peace and quiet away from her loving but occasionally chaotic family.

She hadn't forgotten her mission. She knew she was supposed to meet up with Peter and Olivia to fight the dream monster, but Walter had failed to mention how. She had looked around, but she hadn't found her colleagues, they hadn't found her, and she hadn't found a way out of her own mind or into theirs. She was stuck.

She had to admit though, if you had to be stuck, there were worse places to be. It was like an unexpected vacation, a blissful oasis in the midst of their always crazy and often horrifying jobs. And so, without any other options, she made herself comfortable, prepared to wait until a way forward presented itself.

In this place, time had no meaning. She didn't know how long it had been; it could have been minutes, or weeks. Eventually though, something changed. She felt it; a subtle ripple, an awareness. Something had opened up.

Like any good investigator, she got up to look around. Trying to follow the invisible current she could almost sense was like trying to grab smoke, but that didn't deter her. You don't become an FBI agent without a healthy appreciation for a challenge.

It was there, a little off the path through the woods surrounding the meadow, that she saw it: a door.

* * *

Broyles knew there was a reason he was here, but it was just so easy to get distracted. He was home. Not at his house, but home. His wife was in the kitchen, humming as she prepared lunch. Their children were in the living room, playing cards. He kept having to remind himself, it was a dream. He had a mission.

"Oh, Phillip. I have a great idea. It's such a beautiful day, why don't we have a picnic in the park?"

"That is a great idea. I'll go ask the kids what they think." On his way to the living room, he remembered; he had been thinking about something important. What was it?

Right, the mission. Jasmine Jones was under attack, and needed their help.

"Hey Dad, what's up?" Christopher looked up from the game of Go Fish he was playing with his sister on the floor.

"Mom suggested a picnic in the park. What do you think?"

"Yeah!" his daughter jumped up from the game, dropping her cards.

His son was just as enthusiastic. "I'll go get the football. And the Frisbee!"

Back in the kitchen, Mrs. Broyles was already packing up the baskets. As he returned, it hit him again; it was a dream. So where was Bishop? Well, the man didn't appear to be in the house, so maybe the picnic was a good idea.

Then suddenly, in that way so unique to dreams, they were at the park. Mrs. Broyles was unloading the large, worn blanket and picnic basket, and the kids were arguing about who would get to fly the kite first.

They were eating lunch, laughing, and having a great time, when reality slipped in, almost unnoticed. There, over by the swings; Astrid.

With a certain resignation, he got up, and made his way over to the junior agent.

"Is that your family?" she asked with a smile.

"Sort of." At her questioning look, he continued. "I guess it's what I imagine my family would be like if my wife and I hadn't divorced several years ago. She's remarried now."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He's a good man, and she's happy. I'm happy for them, as much as I may miss what could have been." Broyles suddenly felt the need to change the subject. "So what now?"

"Do you feel that subtle current?"

It was so faint that he hadn't actually noticed it until she said something, but now that he was aware of it, he felt it too. "Yeah."

"Now we follow it to the next door."

* * *

Walter Bishop had the vague, nagging feeling he was forgetting something. However, this was not an unusual state of affairs for him, so he decided that the best way to find the information would be to stop looking.

The smell of Elizabeth's cherry pie was wafting from the kitchen, and throughout the house, Christmas carols spread holiday cheer. From the hall closet, a lilting voice could be heard.

"Walter, would you give me a hand? The children will be here any minute, and we're not going to have everything ready."

"Of course, dear." Walter put down the academic journal he had been reading, and headed toward the closet. On the way, he passed a mirror near the entryway. But the face reflected back to him wasn't his own cheerful, smiling one, but one which was much colder and harder, glaring at him in silent accusation. He quickly averted his gaze and hurried forward.

A few minutes later, they had nearly everything unpacked. Walter still couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he was supposed to be doing, something important. Before he could dwell too long on the matter, though, there was a knock at the door.

"Perfect timing!" he exclaimed as he threw the door open. "Come in, come in! Get yourselves out of the snow." As he stepped aside, Peter and Olivia stepped into the warm home. Peter had his arms around Olivia and they both were grinning.

"Thanks Walter." Olivia said, as she brushed snow from her flowing, golden hair.

"Where's Mom?" Peter asked, but Walter was spared from answering as she appeared in the entryway.

"I'm right here." She gave her son a hug, then turned to Olivia. "Olivia, dear, it's so good to see you again" she said warmly, as she gave the younger woman a hug.

"It's good to see you too. I can't tell you how excited I am to participate in this Bishop family tradition."

"I'm sure it will be even better for your joining us. The tree is straight down the hall, in the living room; we already have most of the ornaments out, and if you want, we have some hot cocoa in the kitchen to warm you up."

They were all just getting settled, when another knock sounded at the door.

"Walter, are you expecting anyone else?" Liz asked in confusion.

"Not that I'm aware of." The confusion on his face quickly turned to delight when he saw who was at the door.

"Aspen! Agent Broyles! What a pleasant surprise! Please, come in!" He ushered the newcomers into the living room, then turned to his wife. "Liz, dear. Would you set another two places at the table? We have some more guests!"

As the older woman hurried off to make the arrangements, Astrid breathed a sigh of relief. "Olivia, Peter; I can't tell you how glad I am to see you here. Now that we're all together, we just need to find Jasmine."

The reply from the senior agent shocked her. "Who's Jasmine?"

Broyles answer was incredulous. "Jasmine Jones. Our Vic?"

"Not another case!" Peter complained.

"I specifically remember you ordering us to take the week off." Olivia added.

Something about what Astro and agent Broyles were saying was shaking something loose in Walter's mind. Was that what he was supposed to remember?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement. Walter turned his head, and in the reflection on the window, he was there again; the man who haunted him. He moved away quickly, trying to keep anyone else from noticing the unwelcome visitor.

The other's hadn't noticed his preoccupation, but had continued arguing.

"We can't just sit around and let something happen to that poor woman." Astrid insisted.

"We're not sitting around, we're decorating a Christmas tree. It's something we've done every single year for as long as I can remember: decorating the tree together, as a family." Suddenly, Peter, who had been the one talking, turned from Broyles to Walter. "Hey, Dad, could you pass me those tree lights?"

Astrid was shocked as she whispered to Broyles, "did Peter just call Walter 'Dad'?".

That was when everything fell into place for Broyles. "It's not them."

"What?"

"These aren't Peter and agent Dunham. They are a part of Dr. Bishop's dream. They don't know anything about the case, and we can't get them to leave, because they aren't real." He turned to Walter, "Dr. Bishop-"

Walter didn't let him finish. "That's what I've forgotten, isn't it?" sadness permeated his words. "That none of this is real."

Compassion filled Astrid's voice as she answered. "I'm sorry Walter."

"Could we at least stay for dinner? Elizabeth was always a wonderful cook."

"Dr. Bishop... I'm sorry, but we have a job to do, and we need to do it. That woman is counting on us."

"Of course" Walter said, as he put on a brave face, trying to pull himself together. "Well, then we'd better get going."

* * *

It was dark. A kind of darkness that indicated much more than a simple lack of light. The gaping blackness was an entity unto itself, and it had swallowed Peter whole. Although he couldn't see anything, he could hear.

He could hear Olivia daring him to call her 'sweetheart' one more time. His parents singing to him on his birthday. His first girlfriend breaking up with him. His best friend's laughter, Walter telling him that his mother had died, Olivia telling him that he belonged with her; it was all there for his listening purposes. A soundtrack of his life.

"No it's not." This new voice was different, not quite as familiar as the others. He turned to the voice, and for the first time, he saw something, or rather, someone. The voice belonged to his own seven year old self; at least, that's what he thought at first. It only took a moment for Peter to realize it wasn't him at all.

The young boy continued. "You think it's your life, but it's not. It's mine. You stole it."

"It wasn't exactly my idea."

"Maybe not at first. But you came back. You embraced it; you chose it. It wasn't yours to choose, but you did it anyway."

"I'm sorry. But I don't see how my staying over there would have done anyone, any good."

"It would have. It would have been better if you had stayed there, and best if you had never come over in the first place."

"How can you say that?"

"You're the reason my mother killed herself. You're the reason my father went insane. You stole my life, then ruined it."

"No. I never wanted that to happen. It wasn't my fault."

"Yes, it was. You took them; now, I'm taking them back."

To his left, Peter saw a scene open up in the endless void. He recognized the room from pictures as his room from when he was in pre-school. In the corner, there was a rocking chair, with a child's bookcase next to it. A warm, feminine voice that Peter would recognize anywhere called out...

"Peter!"

The young Peter ran toward it, calling back. "Mommy!"

They met in front of the bookcase, and Elizabeth Bishop bent down to meet the boy eye to eye. "Why don't you pick out a book, Peter?"

The grown Peter watched on, nearly frozen by the scene playing out in front of him.

"Mom?" She didn't seem to hear him, though, as she helped the little boy in her arms look through books.

The boy heard him though. "Go away. You don't belong here."

A book was selected, but their mother didn't sit in the rocking chair. Instead, the door opened, and Olivia entered.

"Livia!" the little boy shouted in delight, as he ran across the room and was swept up in a hug.

"Hey, that's my line!" the older Peter objected.

Olivia moved across, and took a seat in the rocking chair. The younger Peter followed, and climbed into her lap, handing her the book.

"The Little Prince? I love that book." Olivia's warm smile nearly melted Peter's heart, while simultaneously nearly breaking it, because it wasn't directed at him.

"Olivia!" He began to approach her, but was suddenly stopped by an invisible force, as though a thick, impenetrable glass wall separated him from those he loved. Peter began banging on it, trying to get her attention. "OLIVIA!"

There was no response.

"This isn't fair; you never even met Olivia!"

"They're mine!"

Behind Peter, he could hear a door open.

"Peter?"

Peter wasn't really sure he wanted to see whatever was coming next, but he couldn't stop himself from turning.

There, in the endless blackness, frozen in place with a look of shock on his face, was Walter, flanked by Broyles and Astrid.

Although he had been speaking to the adult, it was the little boy who responded, escaping Olivia's lap and dashing toward the older man. "Daddy!"

Peter watched in mute pain as the boy was scooped into Walter's arms. He was losing everything. "Walter..."

The only father he had ever really known looked back at him with some confusion. It looked like he was going to say something, but the child in his arms beat him to it. "See? Even you don't think of him as your father. You call him 'Walter' instead of 'Dad'. Because he's not your dad, he's mine."

"What, because we don't have the perfect relationship, I don't get to have any relationship with him? That's not fair!"

"Neither is dying at the age of seven."

There was deep pain in Walter's eyes when he interrupted quietly. "You're not my son."

"Yes, I am. I'm your real son."

But Walter was already putting him down. "No, you're not. Peter had accepted his fate, he was ready for it. He never would have denied another the happiness he couldn't have."

The little boy glared up at Peter. "See what you've done? My family was perfect, and then you broke it. You broke him."

And now it was Walter speaking to Peter. "No, Peter, don't listen. This isn't real. He isn't real."

"I don't understand."

"This is just a dream. Don't you remember?"

That stirred something in Peter's mind, tugging at his awareness, but it was just out of reach.

"Sort of. Remind me."

Broyles, who had been hanging back, deeply uncomfortable with the scene playing out in front of him, decided this would be a good place for him to jump in.

"A young woman, Jasmine Jones, has been attacked by an entity that projects itself into people's minds and kills them from the inside. However, since this being never actually enters the victim's body, Dr. Bishop determined that the only way to destroy it would be from inside the victim's mind. He's hooked us up, so that once the drugs kick in and we fall asleep, we can first enter each other's minds, then the victim's."

That sounded right. The memory was distant, as though it were a lifetime ago, but he did remember.

"Does that mean we don't have to stay here?"

"Not only do we not have to stay here, we have to go." Astrid responded.

"Then let's go."

* * *

The cold grey walls towered over Olivia Dunham's 9 year old body. Silence echoed through the seemingly endless hallways, and she had no idea how long she had been wandering through the maze like building. There were no windows to break up the monotony of her surroundings, and the only doors in the hallways led to small, sparse cells, and large, impersonal rooms housing equipment whose function she couldn't fathom. Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a shout.

"OLIVIA!"

The voice was angry, and one she knew all too well. She ran, trying to get away before he found her. Sprinting through the hallways, Olivia made her way through a random path, with no idea where she was or where she was going.

"OLIVIA! GET BACK HERE!"

The voice was getting closer. She took a turn blindly, and then a large hand grabbed her upper arm, gripping tightly enough to leave a bruise.

"What have I told you about-"

Before he could finish the sentence, a loud sound from behind him interrupted. Surprise caused him to loosen his grip and, without thinking, Olivia took her chance. She ripped her arm from him and bolted for the nearest door, slamming it shut behind her. After locking the door, she looked around and realized she was in another one of those large, sterile rooms. On the other side of the space was another door and, deciding to put more space between her and her stepfather, exited through it.

On the other side was another of the hallways. Seeing no sign of anyone, Olivia cautiously continued on her way, as her breathing returned to normal.

It wasn't long before she heard footsteps, but they didn't sound angry. Turning another corner, she found herself face to face with two soldiers carrying semi-automatic guns.

"There she is."

Before she knew what was happening, the two soldiers had grabbed her, one per arm, and were walking her somewhere, with her between them. Olivia had no idea what was going on, and was terrified.

"What's going on? Who are you? Where are you taking me?"

Despite her questions, and her struggles, she got no response. Finally, they led her into yet another of those large, mysterious rooms. In the middle of the room was an examination chair, the type you see at the dentist, only this one had straps. The two soldiers put her in the chair, and strapped down her arms, legs, and head. Olivia had no idea what was going to happen, but was pretty sure she didn't want to find out.

"Please, let me go!"

The soldiers ignored her plea, and left the room.

Endless moments later, another door opened. As Olivia attempted to turn to see who was entering, there was a sudden change; her child's body instantly replaced with her adult form.

And then the two men who had entered came into view. It was Walter Bishop... and another Walter Bishop. They were both wearing lab coats, one over a cardigan, slightly rumpled plaid shirt, and pants; the other over an impeccably tailored suit.

The more put-together Walter walked over to a bank of monitors and controls, and turned them on, while she tried to turn to the other.

"Walter?" Her voice was shaking.

"It's all right, Olive. Don't worry. Everything is going to be all right."

His voice was soothing, but she didn't feel soothed.

"Walter, what's going on? Why am I tied down?"

"Don't worry, Olive. We're just going to run some tests. Everything's going to be fine." While he was talking, he had gotten some neural electrodes from out of a cabinet. "We're just going to attach these pretty wires to your head, and they'll tell us what your brain is doing. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"Not really, no. I don't think I want to do this, Walter."

But Walter was already attaching the electrodes, and gave no sign of having heard her. When he finished, he went to another cabinet and pulled out a silver tray covered by various medical looking objects, including a large syringe filled with a red liquid.

"Walter, please. I don't want to do this. Please let me go."

"Nonsense. We haven't even started yet."

Walter took the needle, and injected it into Olivia's left arm. She could feel the drug surge painfully through her system. From the bank of monitors, Walternate gave a report.

"No target neural activity."

Another syringe appeared in Walter's hands.

"No, please! Don't do this. Please don't do this!"

She may not have said anything for all the attention they paid her.

"Still no target neural activity." Walternate reported. "This isn't working. We should simply remove her brain. A physical examination would produce more information."

"Don't be in such a rush." Walter sounded slightly annoyed. "You can always kill something, but you can't always bring it back to life."

"Very well, what about some electrical stimulation?"

Walter's eyes lit up. "Excellent suggestion!"

Olivia didn't think it was an excellent suggestion, at all. She struggled against her bindings, desperate to get free. She was so distraught, that she didn't hear the door open, and even the gasp barely registered.

When she looked over however, she saw that a group of people had entered through the same door the two Walters had come in through. Standing near the door, wearing expressions with varying degrees of shock, horror and pain were Broyles, Astrid, Peter... and _another_ Walter.

"Let me go! Please just let me go!"

In a flash, Peter was there, undoing the straps.

"Wait, stop! You can't do that, we haven't finished the experiment yet!"

If looks could kill, Walternate would have been dead several times over at Peter's hands. There was danger in his eyes as he spoke.

"Yes, it is." Peter said, in a tone that clearly indicated that there would be no argument.

When the last of the straps were undone, Olivia was out of the chair, and in Peter's arms, hugging him.

"Peter!"

"Shhhh. It's ok." Peter had her wrapped in his arms and was rubbing her back in a soothing manner. "We're going to get out of here."

"No, wait. There are soldiers out there. They have guns." Olivia had pulled back a little, to face him.

"It's ok. None of this is real."

"What?"

"A dream monster has been killing people, first putting them into an unwakeable sleep, then killing them. In order to save our latest victim, Jasmine Jones, we were hooked up to each other to enter one another's dreams. Don't you remember?"

"What are you talking about?" Olivia was confused. Peter wasn't making any sense. All she knew was that they had to stay away from the armed soldiers.

Instead of Peter, though, it was Broyles who responded.

"We're going to go to a place that's away from here and has access to weapons."

It sounded like a good plan to Olivia.

* * *

Jasmine Jones was stuck.

The large stone dungeon was cold, and covered in straw, just like the nightmare she used to have as a little girl. It had never been quite like this, though. Because instead of the dragon and the evil witch who had inhabited her nightmare, she was facing some sort of... shadow monster.

And the nightmare had never felt quite this long. She didn't know how long she had been here, but if felt like ages. And fighting the shadow monster in their encounters had left her increasingly weak and exhausted. She didn't know how much longer she could do this.

And then it was back, the living darkness that was slowly sucking the life out of her. She once again felt the pull that she instinctively knew would mean destruction if she allowed it to take her. She struggled against it, but there was so little fight left in her.

She almost thought it was over, that she had lost, when she realized that she was no longer alone. Five people had joined her in the dungeon, looking like the strangest version of ghost busters she had ever seen.

There were two women; one short and dark, wearing professional, yet practical clothes, the other taller and blond, wearing a suit. Of the three men one was tall and dark skinned wearing a suit and tie, one was older and wearing a lab coat, and the third was younger, face half covered in stubble and wearing a sweater and jeans. All of them had some sort of small pack on their back that was connected to... some sort of weapon maybe?

Before she had time to consider if they were friend or foe, the younger man, the man in the suit, and the blond stepped forward, and pointed their whatever-they-were at the shadow creature. When they fired, some sort of white laser shot from the almost-certainly-weapons to the living shadow. It seemed to affect the monster more than anything she had done had.

Then, it seemed to get angry. It rushed at one, only to get shot by another. It tried to attack the one that just shot it, and then got distracted by the short woman off to the side with the older man. No matter what it tried to do, there was something else vying for its attention. It seemed to be over whelmed.

One last prolonged group attack, and the thing seemed to implode. For a moment, everyone just froze, as if waiting to see if it would come back. Then, the younger man seemed to relax. He turned to her with a smile.

"Sorry we're late. We had a few detours."

* * *

Waking in the lab was a welcome relief for everyone. A quick check determined that everyone seemed to be ok, although Broyles had insisted that Jasmine be taken to the hospital for a more thorough examination.

Jasmine was understandably confused. After a brief conversation, she decided that she didn't really want to know all the details of what happened. No one really blamed her.

Everyone was feeling a bit awkward about having been in one another's dreams. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement that what goes on in your head should be private. No one wanted to be the one to bring up what happened, so everyone was simply not talking about it. Maybe if they didn't talk about it, it would go away.

Later, when they had had some time to process everything, some of them would approach each other, to talk about what they had dreamed, or what they had seen. Despite the guilt, fear and pain that screamed from some of the dreams, they would remind one another that they are not alone.

So ended another day in Walter Bishop's lab.

As everyone grabbed their things and got ready to leave the lab, there was one last thing on Walter's mind.

"I still don't understand why it didn't work, before. Did we not have enough people? That shouldn't be a factor, but I can't think of any other reason."

"Yeah, about that" Brandon said. "After you and agent Broyles were under, I noticed that there was a cord unplugged. Based on my understanding of the process, I was pretty sure it wasn't supposed to be, so I went ahead and plugged it in."

"Oh. Dear. Well, that would explain it."

"Oh dear?" Peter's tone was half incredulous, half annoyed. "You drug us, hook us up to machines and each other, forget to plug something in, and all you can say is _oh dear_?" It seemed to take him some effort to return to calm. "Remind me never to take part in another one of your little projects again."

"It was an honest mistake. It could have happened to anyone."

"Yeah, anyone messing around with other people's brains." Peter muttered.

Astrid just shook her head. They were all at the door, and she smiled.

"Goodnight everyone." She hesitated. After the day they had had, she wasn't sure it was appropriate, but decided to just go ahead and say it. "Sweet dreams."

* * *

Disclaimer #2: I also don't own Ghostbusters.


End file.
